Rough Treatment

by John Harvey

  The lads that had been with him were either too much in his thrall or didn’t know anything anyway. For half of them, it hadn’t been so much different from the end of any Saturday night.

  The manager was chain-smoking French cigarettes, butterfly stitches over one eye, left arm resting in a broad-arm sling. He knew nothing about a family feud. Nothing. The last time he had seen Mr. Chao and his son they had been sitting together, a family occasion, very pleasant, smiling; Mr. Chao had taken his son’s arm as they talked.

  The witnesses mostly confirmed that it had been the men, rowdy and loud, who had started the trouble. As to what had been said, who had actually threatened whom, they were more vague. Except for one, the kind of witness Millington wished he could get in the dock a sight more often. Big fellow, took a couple of knocks himself, but not the sort to bruise easily. Odd sort of name, Czech, Polish, one of those.

  “This bloke, sir, the one I was telling you about …”

  “Customer who went wading in?”

  “Polish I think.”

  “Local?”

  Millington didn’t know. “Name’s Grabianski. You don’t know him, I suppose?”

  Resnick shook his head.

  “Wondered if you’d be interested in having a few words. Expressing thanks, as it were. Not often you get a member of the public chiming in when there’s that sort of shindig going on.”

  “Maybe later,” Resnick said. “Keeping Suzanne Olds off your back ought to be a first priority. There’s no suggestion we’re charging Chao for anything? I assume that’s why she’s here this hour of the morning.”

  “Wish I could say we were, sir.”

  “Bringing him in for questioning?”

  Millington looked doubtful. “Without one of these laddies breaks down, points a finger …”

  Resnick got to his feet. “All right, Graham. Time to invite Ms. Olds to share the mysteries of the breakfast canteen.”

  Millington’s head turned at the door. “If it’s down to a triple-decker egg-and-bacon sandwich, sir, brown sauce, think of me.”

  Suzanne Olds had once treasured dreams of a career as an internationally feted ice-skater: ice-dance champion of the world, the tears engendered by the national anthem not yet dry on her cheeks as she signed the forms that would turn her into a professional sensation. She had been at the rink every evening after school. Saturday mornings, Sundays; her parents had paid for her to visit Austria, Colorado; coaching bills had rivaled their mortgage. Sacrifices they had made for her: no second cottage in the south of France, no winter family holidays, all those mornings driving her to practice, collecting her. For what? A fantasy, but whose? Sunday afternoons in front of the television, old black-and-white films in which Sonja Henie shook her Shirley Temple curls, laced up her skates and danced into the arms of Tyrone Power, applause, the final credits, more of a fortune than ever she could dream.

  At fifteen, at Streatham, Suzanne Olds went for a triple axle and never made it.

  Simple as that.

  After three operations on her knee, the consultant had said, enough. Suzanne went on to university, history and economics. By twenty-eight she was driving a company car, had a first-floor flat off Fulham Broadway; she was confident and articulate and looked good in a tailored suit, she did her homework, knew statistics; Suzanne Olds and market research were made for one another.

  In the aftermath of her thirtieth birthday, she turned down a serious proposal of marriage and dictated her resignation. The following morning she applied to read law at LSE.

  “Why are you bringing me here?”

  “All the interview rooms are full.”

  “What’s wrong with your office?”

  “I thought you’d like some breakfast.”

  She looked at Resnick from beneath lowered lashes. “Coffee,” she said. “Black.”

  He grinned and shuffled a few paces along the queue. Neither salmonella nor listeria had quenched the police appetite for endless fried eggs, bacon, sausages, brittle toast or fried bread mired in fat.

  “Here,” said Resnick. “In the corner, a bit of peace.”

  She still knew how to wear a suit and most eyes followed her like magnets.

  “Lucky sod!” said one officer too loudly as Resnick went by. The look he received was enough to make his sausage cob stick in his throat.

  “I presume this isn’t social?” Resnick said, sitting down.

  “I gave up on that front long ago.” She tried the coffee; it wasn’t as bad as she had feared. “Where you are concerned.”

  In truth, she’d never really started. Nothing beyond a few polite inquiries as to the inspector’s marital status, a handful of chance meetings, once an invitation to a legal dinner that Resnick had turned down.

  “It’s Mr. Chao, then, is it?”

  “Naturally, he’s concerned about what happened last night. Also, any implications that might, incorrectly, be drawn.”

  Resnick smiled. Suzanne Olds was an elegant woman; when the cards lay that way, an intelligent adversary. He was only a little older than she, only a few inches taller. She leaned back in her chair and balanced her cup across the fingers of one hand. Her hair had been swept back and pinned in place; she was wearing a crisp white blouse with a loose black bow at the throat, a charcoal gray suit with a slight flare to the skirt and black brogue shoes with solid heels.

  “Implications,” Resnick teased.

  “Let’s not waste time being naïve, Inspector. Your officers have already expended a great deal of energy and man-hours attempting to prove my client’s involvement with that unfortunate fire in his son’s premises.”

  “Your client?”

  “Mr. Chao has a retainer on my services.”

  “To cover any eventuality.”

  “Exactly.”

  “And the service you’re performing for him on this occasion?”

  “To express his regret that such a thing should happen at all, even though, of course, he was in no way culpable. Neither Mr. Chao nor his staff. To promise you that he has instructed those working for him to give the police their fullest cooperation.”

  “And the cooperation of Mr. Chao himself?”

  “Inspector, my client simply happens to be the owner of the premises where this fracas took place. He was not present at the time and neither he nor his immediate family are in any way involved. Why should Mr. Chao make himself available to the police in this matter?”

  Resnick took his time; when he had finished talking to Suzanne Olds there were others waiting who were less stimulating. “If what you say is true, Ms. Olds, why should he call you so early in the morning and prioritize your expensive time?”

  “Shall we say,” she replied, leaving her coffee far from finished, brushing an imaginary speck from her suit skirt before standing, “Mr. Chao achieved his considerable position in the business community by being both far-sighted and cautious.”

  All right, thought Resnick, okay: for now, let’s leave it at that.

  There were three messages waiting on Resnick’s desk: Rees Stanley had phoned to discuss what progress had been made regarding the burglary of his house and would call back at eleven; the superintendent was due at Central Police Station this side of lunch and he wanted to talk to Resnick before leaving; Jeff Harrison had rung through twice and would be ringing back.

  Resnick pushed open the door of the main office. “This message from DI Harrison …”

  “Came through to me, sir.”

  “Any idea what he was after, Lynn?”

  “Didn’t say, sir.” Her round face was rounder when she smiled. “A pint of Mansfield?”

  Hmm. From what he remembered, Jeff was strictly a spirits man. Doubles, at that. The occasional chaser. Coppers’ tables in the back room of some bar or other.

  Stanley, Skelton, Harrison: Resnick decided he would go and talk to—what was his name?—Grabianski. One of the newer members of the Polish community, perhaps.

  Eighteen

&nbs
p; When the phone rang, Harold Roy was sitting with a tomato juice, trying to concentrate on his camera script. If it wasn’t going to take them half the morning to take out that flat, it was worth putting in a third camera to get the reverse close-ups. At least that would give the vision mixer something else to do, aside from the Independent crossword and buffing her nails.

  “Yes,” he said into the receiver, responding to Alan Stafford’s voice. “Yes, of course I’m listening.”

  So, from beyond the doorway, was Maria, though there was little enough for her to hear. What she could see was her husband wiping away the sweat that formed on his hands, dabbing along his trouser leg. Within less than two minutes, the conversation was over and all Harold had said had been “Yes,” another four times.

  “Harold …?”

  Maria stepped in front of him, blocking his path to the front door. The look he gave her was harder, more strained than she could recall seeing before. Maybe this, all of this, was pushing him too far.

  “Harold …”

  “What?”

  “When you, go, I mean, to talk to him … It is going to be all right?”

  “Are you going to stand there in that thing all day?” he asked. “Or is there a chance you might get as far as the bathroom and swab down?”

  “Milton Keynes,” Grabianski was saying, “the kind of deals they were offering, it would have been stupid to stay put. Brand new premises, low rates, corporation grants, credits—as against that there was this factory in Leicester, ventilation problems, heating, it would have taken us so far into the red putting it right, I doubt we’d ever have got out again.”

  “So you relocated?”

  “Lock, stock and machinery. Down to the land of the concrete cows.”

  “Regrets?”

  Grabianski shook his head. “The walking’s not what it was, but aside from that …”

  “Walking?”

  Grabianski settled back in the chair the inspector had offered him; relaxing into this, enjoying it. Another fifteen minutes or so and he would be in the car and on his way out to see Maria. Less than an hour and they’d be in bed. “Rambling, I suppose you’d call it. Hiking. Up the M1 from Leicester and you’d be in Monsal Dale before the mist had burnt off the hills.”

  “That’s not what you’re here for now, here in the city?”

  Grabianski smiled. “Wish it was. No: business, I’m afraid.” He sat forward again, an elbow resting on his knee. “We’ve still got connections up here, outlets. Sheffield, Manchester. Every so often I have to make the trip.”

  “You do it all yourself? The traveling?”

  “My partner or myself, depending.”

  “You’ve got a partner?”

  “Since I started, more or less.”

  “Not the man you were with in the restaurant?”

  “Last night? Yes.”

  “You were both here, then? This time.”

  “Yes.”

  “I thought you said …”

  “It depends. There was a lot to do, people to see.”

  “Wholesalers.”

  “That’s right. Sometimes it’s easier to spread the load.”

  “While the factory runs itself in sunny Milton Keynes.”

  “Like silk. Well, more like cotton. To be accurate.”

  “Look,” said Resnick, “I mustn’t keep you.”

  “No problem,” smiled Grabianski. “It’s good to talk.”

  “Not many people,” said Resnick, standing, showing Grabianski towards the door, “would have got involved.”

  “To be honest,” Grabianski had turned again, one shoulder almost resting against the door’s edge as he held it open, “if I’d thought about it, neither would I. But I suppose, I don’t know, something triggers you off and before you know it …” His smile broadened and he stepped out of the room, Resnick following.

  “What d’you think it was?” Resnick asked, side by side in the corridor. “The trigger?”

  “Oh, the girl, I suppose.”

  “The waitress?”

  “Yes.”

  Resnick paused at the head of the stairs. “Nice to know the age of chivalry is being nurtured in the industrial heart of Milton Keynes.”

  “Ah,” said Grabianski, “I’ve always been too much of a romantic. Friends say it’ll be my downfall.”

  “Part of our national heritage,” Resnick suggested. “Yours and mine.”

  “Facing up to invading tanks with the cavalry.”

  “Something like that.”

  They descended to the ground floor and Resnick turned the lock on the door that would let them into the entrance. Traffic sounded heavy on the road outside, the last build-up of the morning.

  “I suppose it’s a hotel when you’re making these trips?” Resnick said. They were outside, on the top step.

  “Afraid so.”

  “Any one better than another?”

  “King’s Court—at least the service is good.”

  “If not the restaurant.”

  “Sorry?”

  “I meant, not so good it stops you eating out.”

  Grabianski offered Resnick his hand. Two big men, standing together, wearing suits; tired, when you saw them close, around the eyes; they were both tired. For both of them it had been a long night: an early morning.

  “This business,” Grabianski said, “I hope you get it sorted out.”

  “Oh, we will. Eventually.”

  “Take care.”

  “You, too.”

  Resnick watched as Grabianski walked along the pavement, turning left at the pedestrian lights and then right again opposite the entrance to the cemetery and what had once been a gents’ urinal.

  “Patel,” he said, as soon as he was back into the CID room, “get on to the King’s Court Hotel. Mansfield Road, somewhere. A copy of their guest list, the last ten days.”

  Harold Roy sat at the center of the control panel, the production secretary at his left. Diane Woolf, the vision mixer, on his right.

  The bank of monitors in front of them showed three cameras at the ready, three different angles on a living room decorated in lavish bad taste, the house the Dividends family had moved to after their stroke of fortune. One of the cameras swung suddenly sideways, following a makeup girl’s tightly jeaned rear.

  “Eye on the job in hand, John,” said Diane into the microphone.

  “It was,” came the reply over talk-back.

  “Can we go for this?” asked Harold on the floor.

  “You don’t want to rehearse?”

  “What was that we just did?”

  There was a pause, squeaks of static and then: “Once more for sound, Harold, please.”

  “Shit!” said Harold.

  “You won’t say that if we get a boom shadow,” commented the sound engineer from the adjacent booth.

  “It’s exactly what I’ll say.”

  “We could be rehearsing this while we’re arguing,” said the floor manager.

  Harold jammed both hands over his ears. “Do it,” he said. “Do it!”

  The first actor made his entrance and immediately there was a gigantic boom shadow, smack across the back wall.

  “Don’t anyone dare say I told you so.” Harold glared through the glass panel to where the sound engineer was busy relaying instructions to his operators.

  “Lighting’s coming down, Harold.”

  “In God’s name, what for now?”

  “Just a tweak,” came the lighting man’s voice through one of the mikes.

  “Jesus!” whispered Harold and looked at the clock.

  “Here.” Diane Woolf prised back at the silver paper from another roll of extra-strong mints and passed them towards him. Harold took two, and crunched them both.

  “Would you like some aspirin?” asked the production secretary, a manicured hand on his arm.

  “I’d like to get something, just something, recorded before we break for lunch.”

  “Harold?” It was Rober
t Deleval, querulous from the doorway. “Since we’ve stopped anyway, I was wondering if we could just change a couple of these lines?”

  “Robert.”

  “Yes?”

  “Die!”

  Resnick’s interview with the superintendent had been brief and strangely inconclusive; Skelton had seemed abstracted, his mind on other things.

  “Chao’s not without friends in the city, Charlie. Wouldn’t hurt to bear that in mind.”

  “Member of the golf club, is he, sir?”

  “Charlie?”

  “Sorry, sir.”

  “Only you know what Millington can be like if he feels stymied. If they’re all sitting there, playing stum. Might be a red rag to a bull.”

  Red flag, Resnick thought.

  “I’ll see he keeps the lid on it, sir.”

  “Do that, Charlie.”

  Skelton had sat there, looking at him; Resnick thinking, there are other people I have to see, things to do. “Anything else, sir?” said Resnick. “Only …”

  “No. No, Charlie.” A deft sideways movement of the head; Lawton deflecting the ball into the net. “That’s all.”

  Resnick had already passed Rees Stanley on to Divine, with instructions to his DC to pacify the man, find out whether any of his neighbors knew of the family’s plans to return early, suggest that he joined his local neighborhood watch. Jeff Harrison had phoned a third time and Resnick shuffled it to the back of his mind. Somehow he wasn’t anxious to talk to Jeff—especially if it were about what he feared it might be.

  “Sir?”

  Patel was waiting outside Resnick’s office, shoulders straightening a little more as the inspector approached. The constable was wearing a jacket with a fine check, slacks that had been staprest when they were last cleaned.

  “King’s Court, sir. All their records are kept on computer.”

  “And?”

  Patel shook his head. “Some problem with it, apparently. Won’t print out.”